Goodbye YellowBrick Road
by Quite Silent
Summary: Exactly how far will the FBI go to get what it wants? They want him and dont need her. Second chapters here.
1. A Loaded God Complex

Disclaimer: These are not my characters how ever these are my ideas.

The air was sharp and static, the hum of machines clinging to it for dear life itself. Every color was vibrant, every smell thick and gummy. The heating lamps that hung above couldn't heat her nerve-cooled skin. She knew. She could feel it in her gut, in her heart. Just as she thought this the big oak door swung open revealing a tall dark haired man.

She was doing it for her father, for the lambs, for her beloved bureau. She was their puppet, their dummy. She hung from the ropes, never trying to break them, always performing in their act. Today her role was the desperate, cocaine addicted widow of a former big company CEO. As the man walked in she stood, her hand outstretched. She met the man's gaze and knew when. Knew how. Knew why.

The man took her hand in his and shook it heartily. "Ms. Munns." He smiled, his lip quivering, yellow teeth dully shining with saliva in the bare bulb's light. His breath smelled of peppermint shnops, but only lightly. He wasn't drunk…just nervous. She had somehow blown her cover. He had recognized her. Seen that she was an agent through the wig, through the dark sunglasses, contacts, through the prosthetic nose.

The man motioned for her to sit down, his dark brown eyes looking her over as she lowered herself back onto the hard shipping crate. "How much money do you have on you Ms. Munns?" his voice was prickly and thick as it filled the space between them. "I have about three hundred Mr…"

"Stovall" he finished her sentence for her. "That's plenty Ms. Munns."

"Please call my Victoria." Her accent wasn't working.

"Of course. Now…Victoria, how much were you looking for?"

She could see the delight dazzle behind his eyes as he said this.

Before she could even get off of the crate and onto her high heeled feet she felt the first shot rip into her back and through her chest. The second burnt its way through her neck and into the wall behind her. She fell heavily to the carpet, the last thing she saw were sheep eyes in place of her own as she fell into her red tinted reflection.

A/N: yea I know its short but I'm already writing the second chapter.


	2. Your Name Here

Disclaimer: These characters are not mine, though the story is. I do not claim that the characters are my own. So please. No suing.

The day was saturated with loss. It tossed and turned, swelled and puffy, through the news and air. Like a fat rain drop falling to earth, expanding with each other rain drop that hit it until it was too heavy to glide on the air any longer. The headlines were every where, even, he thought, smeared onto the inside of his eyelids. "Clarice Starling, famous Hannibal Lecter chaser, killed in undercover drug bust." "Death's Angel killed by drug lord in drug bust" "Clarice Starling shot to death. Is it the FBI's Fault or her own?" One paper had the image of Jack Crawford, soaking wet with rain, stepping out of the old tile factory the drug bust was held in, pulling the end of a stretcher. Upon the stretcher lay a long, black body bag in which Clarice Starling eternally rested.

He wanted to rip his hair out, scream, anything. But he stood their silent, staring at the news stand, alarms going off inside, nothing but a stern look showing on the outside. He wanted to kill everyone who had been rude to her, done her wrong, treated her poorly. His deep roller had finally fallen, and not of her own accord. It was her precious FBI's fault. Taking one last look at the stand he hailed a cab. Sitting in the backseat he ordered he be taken to the nearest airport.

* * *

Like satin it twirled and twisted down the spine, its thick red color filling the tiny ridges that lifted the skin. Beauty poured from the face even in death, the eyes were crisp, almost lime green, though the terror had shot them blood red. Blood dipped and pooled just above her partner's chest, a lock of blond hair turned red in the divot of his collar bone. His face was twisted. Demolished. His eyes were sewn shut and his lips smoldered together.

She slammed the folder shut, rubbing her eyes with her left hand as she uneasily set the manila folder down onto the polished oak desktop. God she hated crime scene photos, possibly even more than the real thing. The photos had a haunting effect to them, seemed to actually have the victim looking into the lens, into the eyes of the observer. She shook her head denouncing the idea and stood, her thin arms outstretched to her sides. Picking up her coffee mug she sidled her way through the stacks of files and cabinets. Finally reaching the door with what felt like fifty paper cuts, she yanked on the handle to find a stack of boxes had been placed in front of it just close enough to make it incapable of being moved. She hissed lightly under her breath and placed her empty mug atop the boxes and proceeded to lean down, pushing the bottom box which in turn glided the other boxes away from the door.

Opening the door slowly she sighed. Blinking a few times in the new light she looked up and down the empty halls. The only sound that drifted through the halls and cubicles was the soft click of her too-unnecessary high heels. Humming for no other reason than to keep the unease of the place off of her shoulders she made her way into the break room. Instantly the stale smells of coffee and old food filled her nostrils. Pouring herself a cup of coffee she hummed louder as the tension thickened. The office at night had an eerie feel to it, the contents within made the place almost reek of death.

"Of all the gin joints in all the world"

Swiftly she turned around, a tingle of nerves twisting down her throat, between her breasts and into the pit of her stomach. Barely able to keep from shooting coffee everywhere she stifled a scream. Standing before her was a tall, blond headed man, his dark blue eyes widening at her surprise. A thick smile quickly spread over is cracked lips. "Damn you're easy to scare Brianna." She just blinked and flipped him the bird, her sights set on the small wall mounted TV in the background, her deep grey eyes focusing onto the screen just in time to catch the latest news update. On the screen a field reporter with long brown locks stood in front of a roped off doorway, the yellow tape blocking the entrance reading "Caution" in thick black letters. It was a crime scene. She pushed passed the man and took a seat at one of the off-white tables that sat in the room. Scrolling across the bottom of the screen were the words "Hannibal Lecter's newly discovered Parisian Hideaway found empty" Her eyes widened.

A/N: I guess no one liked the first Chapter. Lol. Well hope you recognize the quote! Enjoy!


	3. Less hope a little more Blackbird

Disclaimer: Hannibal Lecter, Clarice Starling and any other character of the mind of Thomas Harris are just that; of his mind. I do not claim them as my own.

Sweetly and soft the music flowed down the long rows of new and old slate stones. Each with a name carved in its shined, flattened side. Some with angels, hovering sadly above, heads hung low, hands held to their heart. The small choir of five children hauntingly filled the cemetery with their angelic young voices, their words familiar and sad. It was a Beatles song…Blackbird. The softening voices were swept away on the wind the descending leaves of fall danced with the words; each fiery leaf caressing the lyrics with their dying touch. It had been two weeks since she was killed, her cold body lying in the counties morgue. Her graying, cool skin and rigger mortis muscles being cut into and pushed aside, revealing her core. All in search of ulterior causes of death, confirming she had died outright as a result of the two bullets ripping through her body.

He stood on the opposite side of the cemetery, resting a single red rose upon a grave stone under which someone he did not know lay, dead. He bent his head down, mumbling false words of love. He wanted to charge the crowd, rip the top of the casket open and see with his own eyes that it was indeed Clarice M Starling who lay in her final bed, being lowered into the cold earth. But he couldn't. He couldn't risk his cover, being in the cemetery at all was already dangerous. He wouldn't risk them catching him again. Surely they had agents watching. Taking in a deep breath he finally took one last glance at the crème white casket being lowered into a freshly created grave. Hanging his head low, he walked away, his mind pulsing with painful thoughts.

* * *

Suppressing the need to interrupt the ceremonies she watched him carefully through her thick, wavy black hair, her deep grey eyes trailing his every move. He stood on the other side of the tiny cemetery, about two-hundred and thirty yards away. Her throat caught as his eyes almost reached her own. She could see the sadness and disbelief in them even at this great distance. He let is head hang and took off in an even stride, his grey paperboy hat covering his face as best as possible. He was definitely trying not to be noticed, the hat really wasn't his style. She had read Clarice's notes on him even before she had been reassigned to catching him. She hadn't really wanted the job but Mr. Pearsall and Jack Crawford had insisted. It was bad enough having Pearsall pushing her around but Jack Crawford, who had retired years ago, had no right to try to push just as hard. 

Nudging a teary eyed Ardelia Map; she whispered a few words of condolence and gave her a small hug. Taking off down the small stone path that floated through out the grave yard she began to loosely follow him, her eyes catching a glimpse of a red pickup pulling out of the cemeteries parking lot. She squinted, her eyes catching the license plate. Repeating it over and over in her mind she jogged down to her yellow jeep and took off towards Quantico.

Two hours later she had an address and name. The truck apparently belonged to a Cliff Bergeron. She had looked up his criminal history finding it a clean slate; nothing but a single traffic ticket written four years ago for going SLOWER than the seed limit. Damn, she had no reason to check him out. Sighing she bent over, resting her arms and head atop Clarice's old desk. She didn't like being in the dungeon, especially with a dead, fellow agent things. It seemed too personal. Like she was invading Clarice's space. Everything was organized in a particular manner, tapes here, files there, Clarice's notes taped onto every open space on the illumination board that sat on the wall directly across from her desk. Every once in a while she would find strands of fiery hair on the desk or trapped under a piece of tape. Picking up her newly acquired book bag she stuffed her own notes into it and left the dungeon to go home.

* * *

Once again the foul newspapers sat before him, this time spread out over the music stand of his grand piano. They now held a picture of a rail thin, short, black haired woman; Clarice's replacement. She was the woman who had nearly followed him out of the cemetery. He had watched her mouth his license plate as he had pulled quickly out of the parking lot. She wouldn't do. She couldn't replace Clarice and would never come as close as Clarice had to catching him. Taking his hands from the polished, perfectly tuned ivory keys he picked up the issue of _The national tattler _and began to read the article. Her name was Brianna Thompson, a special agent at the age of thirty five. No, she would never match Clarice. Setting the tabloid down he let his light fingers drift down the soft keys once again, his mind building yet another room in his palace, this room reserved for Special agent Brianna Thompson. 

A/N: Thank you Jahwarrior and Ar-men 66 for you reviews they are greatly appreciated! Hope you enjoy!


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